by Gayle Callen
“There’s always a ring—why are ye doing this to us, Maggie? Hurting us both for no reason.”
“I don’t want anyone to be hurt and that’s the point. I didn’t just see her with ye, Owen, but I saw her wet, puddles of water around her, her face cast white as death. And she was staring at me, as if she needed me to do . . . something about it.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Ye’re making no sense.”
She winced, feeling his disbelief like the cold chill of a late summer evening, the breath of approaching winter. Her voice grew rough. “When I see a person wet, Owen, it means they’re going to die by drowning.”
He said nothing at first. She could hear chickens in the distance, the low of a cow, but no human voices. No one was overhearing them to understand her secret—only Owen. And he looked at her now with pity, and even a little disgust. She closed her eyes so she didn’t have to see it.
“This isn’t worthy of ye, Maggie,” he said. “I didn’t think ye’d let jealousy make ye tell lies.”
“This isn’t jealousy! Owen, please, ye must believe me, for Emily’s sake.” Her voice faded into a whisper, because she knew it was too late. He didn’t believe her; he thought her a pathetic liar and a fool.
“Good-bye, Maggie.” He turned and walked back down the wynd toward High Street.
“Owen, warn her, please,” she cried, taking several steps as if to follow him before halting, unable to embarrass herself further.
He didn’t look back at her; he didn’t stop. She hugged herself, feeling more alone than she ever had in her life.
TWO weeks passed, and Maggie never saw Owen on the stairs again. He lived in the same building, but he might has well have been in London. At another assembly, she saw him dancing, but not with the redhead from her dreams. Maggie prayed that she’d been mistaken, that no one would die.
He never looked her way. And the anger she’d kept buried finally rose up, and it took everything in her to remain calm. She hadn’t deserved any of his treatment of her.
And then she heard the gossip at the dressmaker’s shop before any announcement made the newspaper. Lady Emily Douglas had been boating with her family and drowned in the firth.
CHAPTER 1
Ten years later . . .
Owen Duff, newly the Earl of Aberfoyle, escorted the woman he’d reluctantly offered to marry into Castle Kinlochard. He dutifully took her slender arm, felt her stiffen, but she didn’t fight him, not openly. She’d agreed to the marriage, after all, though making no secret of her reluctance. It was ironic, considering how many women over the years, both Scottish and English, had flattered and flirted for the chance to be his bride. And he’d thought he’d have his choice of them, had been taking his time. It was all for naught.
It was long past supper, and a handful of servants were clearing the tables and talking among themselves. His sister, Catriona, trailed behind him, tired, but still able to give him a warning look when they both saw their uncle, Harold Duff, standing beside the giant hearth beneath a display of claymores and targes that practically announced his status as war chief. Yawning, Cat waved in sympathy and headed up to bed.
Seeing Owen’s party, Harold slowly lowered the tankard he’d been about to drink.
No time like the present, Owen thought. As he brought his future bride forward, the formality of the gesture was not lost on the servants, who all grew quiet and wide-eyed, awaiting what Owen would say. Harold, a broad-shouldered man with a heavy beard, eyed Owen expectantly.
“Uncle, may I introduce my betrothed, Mistress Margaret McCallum.”
A gasp and murmurs rippled away from them throughout the great hall as the servants reacted to her surname. The Duffs and the McCallums were ancient enemies.
Owen said, “Maggie, this is my uncle, Harold Duff, war chief for the Clan Duff.”
Owen watched Harold and Maggie eye each other and, as usual, Maggie didn’t appear bashful or intimidated. That hadn’t changed in these ten years. Owen had thought of her occasionally, the laughing girl who’d once listened raptly as he rambled on about his obsession with science. That autumn, he’d willfully ignored his future, the one with duties and responsibilities, as if wishing that a different life was within his grasp.
It had been easy to enjoy Maggie, innocent and bold, eager to discuss and debate and learn. Her eyes were still arresting, one blue, one green, and used to study him so solemnly, so eagerly, making him feel important, even if only just to her. Maturity had added dignity and wisdom to the beauty of her face. Her dark hair was drawn to the back of her head, emphasizing her heart-shaped face, her lips full and kissable, as he well remembered.
Harold cleared his throat and bowed his head. “Mistress McCallum.”
“Ye may call me Maggie, sir,” she said.
She spoke with her typical cool politeness. She’d been showing little reaction at all, these last few days since their betrothal. His sister, Cat, had nervously, brightly monopolized Maggie, as if sensing that things might not go smoothly.
Harold’s shrewd gaze shifted back to Owen. “And how did such a betrothal come about?”
Maggie studied Owen, too, her eyes alight with mischief, as if she was curious to hear what he’d say.
“It’s a long story,” Owen said. “Perhaps, Maggie, you’d rather wash before supper?”
She looked about. “We’ve missed supper, and if I delay, we might miss any meal altogether. Nay, the servants can bring me a basin to wash. I’m far too hungry to wait more than that.”
“As you wish.”
Owen gestured to the housekeeper, Mrs. Robertson, who was waiting for his signal. Soon he and Maggie were side by side on the dais. His bodyguard, Fergus Balliol, stood just behind, one hand resting on his sword and the other on his pistol, as if the empty hall posed a threat.
Maggie broke into a freshly baked bannock, closed her eyes, and inhaled with satisfaction. To Owen’s surprise, such an intense look brought a tightening of anticipation inside him, but he forced it back. It was good to be attracted to the woman one had to marry, after all. Or at least, that’s what he’d been telling himself. He’d fought a hard battle against his father to win the right to choose his own bride—only to lose that right because of the McCallums.
When the worst of his hunger had been assuaged, Owen took a sip of whisky.
Maggie studied him with those affecting eyes. “Is that the whisky ye’ve made from our lands?”
He arched a brow. “Your lands?”
“Aye, my family’s lands. The marriage contract between our families permitted ye to share in its bounty, not own the land itself.”
Owen knew there was no point launching into a deeper discussion of the contract. The decision had been made, and there was no going back. “This whisky is from—”
“Never mind my question,” she said. “I’ll tell ye if my guess is right.”
And Maggie plucked the glass out of his hand and took a sip. She didn’t cough or wheeze or even make a distorted face, as so many women did trying the Water of Life.
“I assume you don’t imbibe regularly,” Owen said dryly.
Ignoring him, she narrowed her eyes as she considered the taste on her tongue. “Aye, this is from our land. But ye’ve done something . . . different.”
“Have we.”
As if she hadn’t heard him, she studied the glass. “Ye’ve changed the proportion of the peat, I believe. The smoke of the peat fire is used to dry the malt.”
Her voice was a tad slow, as if explaining to a simpleton.
Maggie sighed, then spoke with satisfied pride. “Och, well, ye had to alter it somehow, or everyone would have thought it was ours. We do distill the best in the Highlands.”
“You did.”
She swished the liquid in the glass and sniffed. “Believe what ye’d like, my lord.”
He took the drink back. “You called me Owen not too long ago.”
“Ten years is a long time—Owen,” she said brusquely.
After the wary distance she’d shown him during her brother’s wedding celebration, he found himself relieved for the renewal of her spirit. He didn’t want to be married to a martyr.
“Ye seem familiar with each other already,” Harold interrupted. “Is that why ye decided to marry?”
“Nay, no familiarity involved there,” Maggie said with a dry tone in her voice. “At least none that mattered. I do believe he offered for me because it was the only honorable thing to do to keep the peace.”
Owen stiffened. “Honorable? You cannot possibly question me about that after what your brother did.”
Her smile faded and they looked at each other intently.
In a mild voice, Harold said, “Shall I play the role of arbiter, as well as war chief?”
“That won’t be necessary, Uncle,” Owen said. “You asked me to explain what happened and I shall. You knew that Maggie’s brother Hugh was engaged to my sister since her birth. It was our fathers’ attempt to bring peace to the clan, to offer a dowry to the McCallums, and to share the land where they distilled their whisky. After Hugh became chief, he came to collect his bride, and my father behaved dishonorably by secreting her away and putting our cousin Riona in her place.”
Harold stiffened, but his expression remained impassive. He well knew the cruelty his brother had often practiced.
“Hugh took the wrong bride and fell in love with her,” Owen finished.
Maggie’s gaze shot to his face, and she didn’t hide her surprise. Had she thought he’d continue to berate her brother’s choices, the way the man had kidnapped Riona and wouldn’t believe the truth? Hugh’s mistakes were in the past, and after all, Owen’s father had played his own part. But the earl was dead, and it was up to Owen to make things right. His father managed to control him in the end, even from beyond the grave.
“So the marriage contract was broken,” Harold said slowly.
“Maggie and I decided to set it aright,” Owen answered. “We will marry and seal the bond between our clans. I don’t want animosity to ever erupt again.”
Harold looked from him to Maggie and back again. Maggie was simply pushing her food about her plate, her expression pensive, perhaps even sad.
They’d been forced into a marriage they didn’t want because of poorly planned actions on both sides. Owen was doing his best—she damned well better try just as hard.
“When will this marriage take place?” Harold asked.
The sooner the better, Owen thought. What would be the point of delaying the inevitable? “Four weeks. That is enough time for Maggie to settle in at Castle Kinlochard and have the banns read.”
Maggie stood up, pushing back her chair with force. “I’d like to retire now. Mrs. Robertson, will ye show me to my bedroom?”
And without looking back, Maggie left the great hall. Owen watched her until she’d gone, anger and frustration warring within him.
“Take heart, lad,” Harold said. “Many a marriage has started worse.”
“Says the man who never found the right woman to marry,” Owen shot back.
Harold gave a rare grin. “Didn’t say which of us was the smartest, now did I?”
Owen exhaled swiftly. “Before I find my bed, tell me what has happened since I’ve been gone.”
They spoke for another hour before Owen said good night and departed, after insisting Fergus find his own bed. Another level up in the towerhouse, Owen strode down the hall, passing the chamber Maggie had been assigned without slowing down—until he heard a high, frightened, piercing cry from within.
MAGGIE struggled to return to consciousness, the weight of hands holding her down. She felt mindless with fear at the vividness of the dream, for it had been years since one stole so completely into her mind and soul. She was locked in the terror and reality of Owen lying bloody and near death on their wedding day.
“Maggie! Maggie, lass, wake up.”
She thrashed to escape, to stay in the dream and find out the truth of what might happen to him, to know if being married to her meant his death, but the insistent voice kept calling to her, and large hands seemed to drag her from the depths of a deep pool.
She opened her eyes wide and saw Owen, and the night shadows cast by the moon looked like blood upon his face.
She screamed again, then grabbed ahold of his coat and pulled him even closer. “Are you well? There’s so much blood!” She spread his coat, then felt frantically across his chest, looking for the hot, sticky wetness. Nothing except the strong beat of his heart. She touched his stubbled face, and the back of her hand became a part of the mottled shadows, not blood.
He took both her hands in his and spoke firmly. “Maggie, it was a nightmare. You’re awake now.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath. He was too close, hovering over her, powerful and intimidating. She yanked away from him and sat up, leaning back into the headboard of the four-poster and pulling the counterpane to her chin as if for protection from the evil she’d just witnessed. She couldn’t forget the image of his bloody face, and she covered her eyes and moaned.
“Are you well?” he asked. “Should I fetch a doctor?”
She shuddered. His cultured voice had lost the Gaelic rhythm and accent of their people, making him seem even more a stranger.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Is there water in the pitcher? I’m parched.”
He went to pour her a glass, and it was a relief to have him not staring at her. She had to get herself under control, to push the dream away—for now. Because certainly, she would have no choice but to dissect it when she was alone.
Owen brought her the water, and to her dismay, she was shaking, and had to hold the glass with both hands. She took a long drink, then let it rest in her lap while she willed herself to cease trembling.
His brows were lowered in a frown of concern. “Are you truly well?”
“’Twas just a nightmare,” she said, boldly meeting his eyes and daring him to disagree.
She hadn’t had a vivid dream portending the future in ten long years. After the shock of Emily’s death and Owen’s derisive disbelief, she hadn’t ever wanted to experience such a dream again. The few times she’d felt one become too real, she’d learned to wake up until, gradually she’d molded herself into a normal woman who faced each day hopeful for the future, unaware of how things would truly turn out. She no longer had fears that people would find out and call her a witch or keep their children away from her. Yet . . . she never felt whole, but as if a part of her was missing.
But tonight a dream had swept over her like an ocean wave, more powerful for the long restraint, battering her emotions against the crumbling rocks of stability she’d erected to protect herself. Seeing Owen near death . . . would he really die?
His derision and Emily’s death had forced her to change everything about herself. The happy girl who’d known there were exciting mysteries in the world had been replaced by a woman who wanted to forget such things existed.
But a dream had happened again, and she was back to being the outsider. She had no one to confide in, because she’d insisted Hugh and Riona needed to celebrate their marriage, not accompany her to the Duff stronghold like she was a child. Maggie had probably hurt her mother by making her stay behind, too.
“Are you feeling better?” Owen asked, his voice low and cool.
Maggie jerked and looked up at him. Her anger toward him had never dissipated after how he’d caused her to hate a part of herself and then forgot she existed. But she nodded her answer to his question.
“You don’t look better.”
He went to the hearth and, using a taper, lit several candles about the room, including the one at her bedside. The shadows receded, making her feel a little calmer, and giving her a clearer view of him. It had still been a shock to see how much Owen had changed in ten years—and yet how little, as well. Had she expected him to grow ugly and deformed? She’d been almost angry enough to wish for it. His face was still lean and han
dsome, with prominent cheekbones, and a bold square jaw. His light brown hair was drawn back into a queue rather than hidden beneath a wig. There was a maturity to him now, a heaviness to his shoulders and upper body that said he had not been simply dancing and paying court to ladies so far away in London all these years. But it wasn’t just his physical appearance that still consumed her—it was his very presence, an attraction that she hadn’t imagined could still exist after everything he’d done—yet it seemed to have grown stronger through the passage of time.
So when he’d offered to wed her only moments after seeing each other again . . . she’d been so stunned and affronted and full of a dawning futility that she couldn’t decide which one she was supposed to feel.
“What are you doing here?” she finally asked. “Was my scream so very loud?”
“Yes, it was.” He rocked back on his heels and considered her. “I was passing by on my way to bed when I heard you. I thought you were being attacked.”
“So you rushed in to save me,” she said coolly.
With a shrug, he leaned against the bedpost, arms folded across his chest in a way that seemed so masculine, so aware of himself and her as a couple who were supposed to marry.
She shuddered at the sudden memory of herself in her bridal gown with his blood spattered across it.
Owen frowned. “You’re shaking with the cold. There has to be another blanket here somewhere.” He bent over one of the chests that lined the wall.
“Nay, ’tis all right—”
But he ignored her, spreading a wool blanket across the counterpane. He was leaning over her, and when he met her gaze, it was as if he touched her.
“Better?” he asked, his voice suddenly gone husky.
“Aye,” she answered quickly, wishing he’d move away.
She did feel warmer. Perhaps it was a blush, or another memory of his kiss and his hands bringing her body to life before she’d made him stop that day in the grass. Since then there were lonely nights when her guard was down and she wished she’d have dared to go farther with him, just to know what it felt like to be with a man. Her body aching with memories, it had been difficult to remember that he’d derided her for telling him the truth about her dreams, told her she acted out of jealousy. He hadn’t trusted her; she couldn’t let an inconvenient attraction make her forget what he really thought of her.
